The Amazing Harvey

by Don Passman

  That’s how I know the name Caldwell.

  It all fits.

  Holy Shit.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Hannah and I walked into the district attorney’s cramped downtown office. The thin man, who had a crescent scar at the corner of his eye, was on the phone. He stood behind a desk piled with legal files, empty Styrofoam cups, and a ceramic coffee mug jammed with ballpoint pens. A worn brass nameplate on the desk said Ken Warren.

  Warren was wearing a white shirt, buttoned tight to his neck. As he leaned over the desk and opened a file, his black tie swung like a pendulum. He said to the phone, “Tell him six years. Period. Otherwise, we start trial Monday.”

  A young woman rushed in and shoved a paper in front of him. He crooked the phone between his shoulder and ear, grabbed a pen from the mug, and slashed a few strokes at the bottom of a page. She took the paper and scurried off.

  Warren said to the phone, “Fine. Done.” He hung up and looked at me, squinting like he couldn’t quite place me, then looked at Hannah. “What’s up?”

  “Can we sit?”

  He glanced at the door. “Yeah, sure.”

  Hannah took the open chair. I moved some files off the other one and sat. Warren stood behind his desk.

  She said, “This is Harvey Kendall.”

  He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth in an Ah, like it all came back to him. “Right. Murder suspect.”

  Hannah said, “You have to dismiss his case.”

  His mouth formed a half smile. “And why would I do that?”

  “The evidence is based on his DNA, correct?”

  “I’ve got fourteen murder cases. I can’t keep all the details in my head.”

  “Well, without this ‘detail,’ you’ve only got thirteen cases.”

  He looked at his watch. “Will you please get to the point?”

  “Mr. Kendall had leukemia as a child. It turns out that the treatment for leukemia is a bone-marrow transplant, which changes your DNA. He and the donor have the same DNA.”

  Warren looked at her, then at me. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It’s true. Look it up on the Internet. I found several articles about it this morning.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll ask one of my forensic scientists. Assuming it’s true, how do I know this other person was even in the city?”

  Hannah stood. “Because the bone-marrow donor was James Caldwell, the victim’s apartment manager.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Hannah said to the district attorney, “When the victim broke up with her boyfriend, Kevin, she said she was dating an older man. Kevin said, while they were having sex, someone came in and yelled, ‘Slut.’ There was no forced entry, so he had to have a key to her building and her apartment. The boyfriend said her dog barked, then shut up. The dog would have gone quiet because it knew the manager.”

  I said, “The manager left in a jealous rage, then came back the next night, had rough sex with her, and strangled her. You found his semen and thought it was mine because of the DNA.”

  Hannah said, “The City of Hope will verify that the manager was the marrow donor.”

  I said, “The apartment manager said I looked familiar. It’s not because I knew Sherry. It’s because we met when I was a child, a year after my transplant.”

  Hannah stood. “There’s nothing other than DNA to connect my client to the crime. He never met the victim. Besides, if two people have the same DNA, there’s more than reasonable doubt which one of them did it. You’ve got to dismiss.”

  Warren sat, then pushed on his temples with his fingertips. “I will, of course, have to verify all of this.”

  * * *

  When we left the DA’s office, I bounced down the hall. Couldn’t help grinning. Hannah had a pretty big smile herself.

  I said, “What happens next?”

  “Warren has to go through his due diligence to verify our story. That’ll take a few days, but essentially it’s over.”

  I walked a little faster. “Will they take a DNA sample from the apartment manager?”

  “Yes. But he probably won’t go down for this.”

  I stopped. “Why not?”

  Hannah turned to face me. “Because of you. There’s no way to prove which one of you did it.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Really. There’s no way for the prosecution to show guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  I let out a sigh. “That’s … shitty.”

  “Well, sometimes in life, things don’t tie up in neat little packages.”

  We started walking slowly.

  Shit.

  This guy literally gets away with murder? Why do I feel guilty about that?

  Guess there’s nothing I can do.

  I wrinkled my forehead.

  On the other hand …

  The apartment manager doesn’t know any of this yet.

  Maybe there’s a whole other angle.…

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I walked up to the security gate at Sherry Allen’s apartment building and buzzed the manager.

  Caldwell’s voice came through the intercom. “Yes?”

  I held down the metal pushpin with the tip of my index finger. “It’s Harvey Kendall.”

  “Who?”

  “Kendall. We met a few weeks ago, when I was asking about Sherry Allen.” The metal pin felt like it was denting my finger.

  I heard a clunk. The line went dead.

  I buzzed again.

  The manager said, “You got a lotta nerve coming around here.”

  I tried to sound pleasant. “Can I come in for a minute?”

  He hung up.

  I let go of the metal pin. My finger throbbed at the indentation point. I used my middle finger to buzz him again.

  Then again.

  Caldwell’s voice came on. “Do I have to call the cops again?”

  “You don’t want to do that. I have something here that’s important to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll tell you in person. Give me five minutes.”

  After a moment of static, the speaker went dead.

  The gate lock buzzed.

  I quickly pulled the handle, then squatted down, took the wooden wedge from my back pocket, and placed it so the gate would stay open. I hustled up the sidewalk, yanked open the front door, propped it open the same way, and hurried into the dim hallway. The air smelled like mildew.

  I blinked my eyes, trying to adjust to the low light. Down the hall, Caldwell stepped out of his apartment, leaned against the doorjamb, and studied me. As I got near him, he planted his feet shoulder-length apart and folded his arms over his chest, straining the buttons of his Hawaiian shirt.

  He said, “What is this about?”

  “We need to talk privately.”

  Not moving, he stared into me. “You got four more minutes.”

  “I think you’d prefer to do this privately.”

  Keeping his eyes on me, he backed into his apartment. I stepped inside and closed the door.

  Caldwell said, “Three and a half minutes.”

  I reached into my pocket and took out a clear plastic package with a spoon that said Burbank. “Here. This is for your collection.” I nodded toward the rack of city spoons on his living room wall.

  He looked at the spoon, then up at me. “This your idea of a joke?”

  I went into his living room and put the spoon on his coffee table. “It seemed right to bring you something, since I’m about to ask you for something.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I figured out why you think I look familiar.”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Me, too. You came around here to see Sherry; then you killed her.”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  Caldwell’s eyes narrowed. His left eye twithed. “You saying I’m a—”

  “I look familiar because we met when I was seven years old, Mr. Caldwell. You were m
y bone-marrow donor.”

  Caldwell took a half step back. His eyes widened.

  I said, “We met at City of Hope’s annual donor picnic when I was a kid.”

  He stared hard at me.

  I said, “See, when you gave me your bone marrow, you also gave me something else. Because of the transplant, we have identical DNA.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s a scientific fact. The cops found your semen in Sherry Allen and thought it was mine.”

  He shook his head. “I never slept with Sherry Allen.”

  “The police have e-mails saying she was involved with an older man. Right before she was killed, you found her in bed with her boyfriend, Kevin. Sherry’s dog barked a couple of times, then stopped. That’s because the dog knew you. You called Sherry a slut, stormed out, then came back the next night and strangled her.”

  Caldwell’s chest rose and fell in deep breaths. His hands formed into fists.

  I forced myself to hold my ground.

  He suddenly leapt forward, grabbed me, and groped my chest and back. “You wearing a wire?”

  “No, no. Search all you want. When you hear the rest of what I have to say, you’ll know why I’m not wearing a wire.”

  He shoved me backward. I scrambled in awkward steps to keep from falling.

  Caldwell said, “Face the wall. Hands up, feet apart.”

  I went to the wall and put my palms against it. He methodically patted me down.

  Caldwell backed up and said, “Now strip.”

  I turned around. “What?”

  “In case you’re wearing some fancy new device. Strip.”

  “You just searched me.”

  He went into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a shiny butcher knife that flashed as it caught the light. As Caldwell came toward me, it looked like a six-foot scimitar. “Strip.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Keeping my eyes on the knife, I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off. Caldwell, still clutching the knife, held out his free hand and wriggled his fingers in a “Hand it over” gesture. I gave him the shirt.

  As I took off my undershirt, he felt all through the shirt’s fabric, then dropped it on the floor.

  I said, “I told you I’m not wearing a wire.” My bare skin bristled in the humming blast of the air-conditioning vent.

  Caldwell took my undershirt, checked it, and threw it on the floor. “Keep going.”

  “Keep going?”

  He held up the knife.

  I undid my belt, let my pants drop, stepped out, and handed them over. He emptied the pockets, then felt all through the fabric. “Drop your shorts.”

  “C’mon…”

  “Drop ’em and turn around in place.”

  Memories of stripping in the jailhouse flashed back. My hands shook as I hooked my thumbs in the elastic band of my undershorts, dropped them to my ankles, turned around in small steps, then pulled them back up.

  Caldwell said, “All right. Now what’s this about?”

  “I want to get dressed first.”

  He looked at me, then nodded.

  I picked up the pile of clothes and stepped back from him. I grabbed my undershirt from the tangle and pulled it quickly over my head so I could keep my eyes on him. I then picked up the shirt, stuck my arms through the sleeves, and started buttoning. Why is it so difficult to work a goddam shirt button?

  Caldwell said, “Talk.” He twisted the knife in his hand.

  I let out a breath, still feeling humiliated from the strip search, and spoke as I kept buttoning the shirt. “I can get you out of all this.”

  Caldwell narrowed his eyes. “What’s that mean?”

  “When Sherry was killed, I wasn’t in Los Angeles. I told that to the cops, but they didn’t believe me, because of the DNA.”

  I grabbed my pants and stepped into them, missed one leg, and did a couple of jumps as I worked my foot through the pant leg. “When I found out that you and I have the same DNA, I was on my way to tell the cops. Since I can prove I wasn’t in Los Angeles, that leaves you holding the bag.”

  He shifted his weight.

  I zipped up my pants and fastened the belt buckle. “But I haven’t gone to the cops yet. I had a better idea. See, I need some money. So I don’t have to sell this magic trick that I’ve spent years developing.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m a professional magician. My career depends on having an original trick. Anyway, I thought to myself, maybe you and I can make a business deal.”

  He squinted at me.

  I said, “If you play ball with me, I’d be willing to say I was in Los Angeles after all. Then, with both of us having DNA at the crime scene, they can’t convict either of us.”

  Caldwell wrinkled his forehead. “That’s what would happen?”

  “Yeah. I checked it with a lawyer.”

  He slightly loosened his grip on the knife. Didn’t he?

  Caldwell furrowed his forehead. “So you’re saying, if I give you money, you’ll tell the cops you were here and neither of us gets convicted?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How much money?”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  He staggered back a step, like he’d been shoved in the chest. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “You can pay me over time. Say a few thousand now, then a thousand a month.”

  Caldwell shook his head. “This sounds like blackmail.”

  “That’s because it is. Look, either way, I’m skating the murder charge. I can either leave you to the wolves or give you a pass. Your choice.”

  He stared at me. “I can think of something else. Maybe you came here and threatened me, trying to get me to cover up your murder. When I refused, you attacked me and I slit your throat in self-defense.”

  My heart thudded in my neck. I swallowed.

  I said, “I suppose you could try that. And since you’re better at these things than I am, you might kill me. But then you’ve got two murders on your hands. This one will be right in your apartment, ’cause I’m not going out to some remote location with you. Think about it, Mr. Caldwell. Killing me doesn’t exactly make you look like a pacifist, now does it? Besides, why would you want to take that kind of chance? I’m offering you a risk-free Get Out of Jail card.”

  Caldwell started pacing.

  The air conditioner hummed.

  Still pacing, he said, “How … how would I know you’d keep your word?”

  “Once I tell the cops I was in town, I can’t go back on it. I’m more worried about you keeping yours. I’m thinking I want something in writing.”

  He stopped pacing. “NO. Nothing in writing.”

  I shrugged. “Then I need more money up front.”

  “I haven’t got it.”

  “Borrow it.”

  He dropped the knife on the coffee table with a clunk, then fell back on his couch, as if he was out of breath. “I need to think about all this.”

  “Twenty-four hours. Then I’m getting my ass outta this mess. Come along or don’t. Up to you.”

  I started for the door.

  Caldwell said, “How much would you need up front?”

  I turned around. “How much you got?”

  “Maybe five grand.”

  “Borrow another five. Ten now, a thousand a month, and we got a deal.”

  Caldwell pulled himself up to a standing position. His face looked weary. “Maybe I could do seventy-five hundred now, then a grand a month.”

  I smiled. “All right. Done.” I stuck out my hand.

  He didn’t take it.

  I softened my voice. “You know, I’m not just doing this for the money. I wouldn’t feel very good about letting a killer stay on the streets if I didn’t think you were a decent guy who just got provoked.”

  He narrowed his eyes in a “What are you up to?” look. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  Oh shit. Did I go too far?

  I said, “
I do know something about you. You donated bone marrow. That’s a painful thing to do, especially for a total stranger.”

  He kept staring at me.

  I said, “My mom told me it was because of your sister. She had leukemia, too, huh?”

  His eyes teared. “Yeah. Poor little Angie. I felt so … hopeless. It was before they had bone-marrow transplants. Leukemia was a death sentence.” As he looked away, his eyes reflected the light.

  “I do know you. You’ve got a good heart.”

  He quickly wiped at one eye with his index finger.

  I said, “On top of that, I met that kid Kevin. The one you caught her with. Hard to believe she’d fall for someone like that.” I gave him a sympathetic look.

  He turned his head back toward me.

  I said, “I’ve certainly had times in my life that I wanted to strangle people, and just like you, I’m no killer. I can’t imagine how you felt, walking in on the two of them.”

  He let out a sigh. “I didn’t mean to k—” He looked up at me. “You’re right. I’ve never done anything like that before. And never will again.”

  I nodded. “I appreciate your saying that. It makes me feel a lot better about all this.”

  “That’d make you the only one.” His face was hardening again.

  I walked to the door of his apartment and opened it, to reveal Morton, Dupont, and Hannah standing in the hall.

  Morton, wearing a white plastic earpiece with a twisted wire that led into his shirt pocket, stepped inside. “Mr. Caldwell, you are under arrest for the murder of Sherry Allen. You have the right to remain silent—”

  Caldwell’s eyes shot to me. “What is this?”

  Morton said, “We got a recording of your admission, Mr. Caldwell.” He tapped the listening device in his ear.

  Caldwell’s eyes burned into me. “There was no wire. I … I checked you.”

  I went over to his coffee table, grabbed the packaged Burbank spoon, and held it up. “The basis of all good magic. Misdirection.”

  “You son of a bitch!” He started at me.

  Morton grabbed him. Dupont came around behind and snapped handcuffs onto his wrists.

  Morton finished reading Caldwell his rights.

  * * *

  Outside the building, I watched Morton put his hand on Caldwell’s head as he guided him into the backseat of the police car. Morton shut the door with a metallic slam.